Spy in Chancery

been bought for a price, a little higher than the usual thirty pieces of silver. Edward silently ground his teeth. He had trusted that florid-faced fool as a son. For what? Richmond had taken an expeditionary force to France, invaded Gascony and promptly surrendered. Edward looked around. There were others, Bohun, Earl of Hereford, and Bigod, Earl of Norfolk. God's teeth, a precious pair! Gascony, had demanded that the province be handed over to him for thirty days while the dispute was setded. Edward ground his teeth at what happened next. His own dear brother, Edmund, had agreed, later justifying his actions by all sorts of legal nonsense. The French had immediately occupied it and Philip IV, that white-faced, devious bastard, had refused to cede it back. His troops poured into the duchy like a river breaking a dam, and all was lost.
    Edward had complained bitterly to Philip, the Pope and other princes of Europe. Oh, they had been sorry. They thought it was a terrible violation of a vassal's feudal rights but Edward knew they would not help, behind their polite diplomatic statements, they were laughing at him. Yet this had only been the beginning of the nightmare; Edward's spies began to send in reports of a secret, grand design by Philip to isolate England, striking through Scotland, Wales, Ireland and Gascony. Edward had brought Wales firmly under his control, Scotland could be subjected and Gascony regained, but what if the reverse was true? If Philip took all these provinces before launching an all-out assault on England. Duke William of Normandy had done the same two hundred years before.
    Edward's own grandfather, John, had lost all of England's possessions in northern France and had to face a French invasion of England. Was the pattern going to repeat itself? Edward frowned and cracked his knuckles. He had made a serious mistake, he had underestimated Philip IV, nicknamed 'Le Bel', the French King had fooled everyone with his coy, blond looks, frank blue eyes and honest, down-to-earth approach. Now Edward knew better. Philip was intent on creating an empire which would have made Charlemagne gasp in amazement.
    Edward flexed his fingers above the brazier. There must be a way out, he thought; he would reinforce the Welsh garrisons and send an army north to smash the Scots. And Philip IV? Edward sighed. He would grovel to the Pope, kiss his satin sandal, place England and its territories under his protection. Grandfather John had done the same with brilliant results. If anybody attacked England, they would, in fact, be assaulting the Holy Father and all the might of the Catholic Church. Edward grinned, he would send bushels of gold to that old reprobate, Pope Boniface VIII, and ask him to intervene, arbitrate. At the same time, he would root out the traitors here in Westminster. But whom could he trust? Whom would Burnell have chosen? Edward thought and his grin almost broke into a laugh. Of course! The King of England had chosen his man.
    Hugh Corbett, senior clerk in the royal chancery of England, knelt before the statue of the Virgin in the palatial, incense-smelling lady chapel of the Cathedral of Notre Dame in Boulogne-sur-Mer. The English clerk was not a religious man but he believed that the good Christ and his mother should be treated with every courtesy, so he prayed when he remembered to. Corbett found prayer hard, he did most of the talking while God always seemed too busy to answer him. Corbett had lit a pure beeswax candle and now knelt in its circle of light, desperately trying to fulfil his vow.
    He had made it during that God-forsaken voyage from England in a squat, fat-bellied cog which seemed to have a will of its own, almost malicious in the damage it had caused. On leaving Dover, it had run into a storm and backed and heaved itself across the swelling sullen waves. An icy, blasting wind had filled the sail, tossing the ship like a leaf on a pond and Corbett had spent the entire voyage crouched in the bows, vomiting and retching till he thought his heart would give out.
    The cold sea water poured through the scuppers, soaking his already freezing body until Corbett thought he was going to die. He could not move for what was the use? Only to vomit and be despatched back to the rail by his equally discomforted colleagues. Corbett's only consolation was that his body-servant, Ranulf, had been as ill. Usually a man of robust appetites, Ranulf had joined his master in his agony. Corbett had, at